


the paths not taken

by Cheshire



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Angst, Coping, Death, Lack of Coping, M/M, Multiple Timelines, Not a ship fic, ending spoilers, yeah half the Deliverance shows up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 12:53:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheshire/pseuds/Cheshire
Summary: One of them dies on the field of battle. The other must live.A study on Forsyth and Python’s possible endings, the lives they lead alone when they no longer have each other.





	the paths not taken

 

> **(If Forsyth dies)  
>  ** Python accepted a knighthood from the One Kingdom, growing into a new man who worked diligently—almost as if possessed by Forsyth. Sadly, he died a few short years later while fighting to suppress a rebellion, his wounds claiming him while he was far too young.
> 
> **(If Python dies)  
>  ** Forsyth joined the One Kingdom's knights after the war. The loss of Python left him empty, which is perhaps why he volunteered to go to the borderlands to bring the king's peace. He met and wed a woman from the area, and the two never returned to the capital.

 

-

 

**I.**

When Forsyth dies, Python is quiet but visibly shaken. He remains by Forsyth’s body, and there’s not a thing in the world that could pull him away. He murmurs words that no one else quite hears. _Forsyth, you damned fool_.

It’s a while before he moves, nevermind that it’s during the heat of battle. Mogalls swarm them from the east, witches from the north, and further still is a dragon god that may very well be the death of them all.

_How did you think this would end?_ He could be talking to himself. He’s not sure that he isn’t.

Lukas covers for him as long as he can. It’s not like Lukas hasn’t lost friends too, he knows what it’s like, so he waits until he’s battered and bloodied before he calls for Python to pay attention.

“Python, this is not the time.” He tries to be gentle with his tone, but this is urgent. They both know there’s no time but now—and now is unfortunately the worst possible time to mourn. _Now_ is going to cost them their lives, and all their sacrifices will become meaningless. “Python!”

Python moves unbidden. His fingers brush against Forsyth’s armor. The steel's cold but his hand snaps back as if it were blisteringly hot, as if he were burned. He looks around, gathers his wits about him. He sees the mogalls and witches again, he sees his allies still fighting.

Then he’s up and back on his horse. Python steers it somewhere safe, out of reach of the swarming mogalls, but not so far out that he doesn't have a clear shot for the witches up ahead. His field awareness comes easily, without thought. It’s nothing he hasn’t done a thousand times before. It’s nothing he can’t do on raw instinct alone.

He clears his mind. The only thing he worries about is the task at hand. He doesn't allow his thoughts to stray. He doesn't want to know where they might lead.

Python draws his bow, and there’s the now familiar sound of a hunter’s volley. In the distance, a woman screams as an arrow strikes true. From the far end of the field, the Deliverance’s front line breathes a little easier.

“Don’t worry, stud,” Python drawls, sounding for all the world like nothing’s changed. “You’ve got my all.”

 

 

**I.**

When Python dies, Forsyth assumes Python took a hit and decided he didn’t feel like getting back up again. It happens. It shouldn’t ever happen when you’re fighting a deity in the flesh, but it’s _Python_. It’s something he would do.

Forsyth knows that when he went over to Python’s side, he intended to drag him back up, to tell him to keep fighting, for goodness sake. He remembers touching an unmoving wrist, and it’s then that he realizes that he’s yelling at no one, that Python can’t hear him, that there isn’t a Python left to hear him.

He remembers that moment of _hope_ , where he prayed to whatever god would have him that his eyes deceived him, that this was a mistake. He concocts a thousand lies in a second, a thousand different ways for this to be anything but real. It's for naught. Python is dead. He accepts it, because he must.

After that, his memory goes blank.

He wakes the next day, and his throat is sore, his eyes red from tears, his heart hollow with little left to give. Clive tells him that he kept fighting, as if in a trance, still defending his allies as best he could. It’s a quiet, careful conversation, where Clive tries to ascertain how much Forsyth left behind on the battlefield that day and how much still remained.

“This may not be the opportune moment,” Clive says before he leaves, “but Alm wants to rebuild the knighthood, a unified order for the One Kingdom to be sworn in at his and Princess Celica’s coronation. If you’re not up for the pomp and circumstance so soon, then we needn’t rush. A knighthood is yours to claim, whenever you want it.”

Forsyth nods. Python’s wouldn’t have wanted him delay, not when his dreams were so easily within reach, but it’s not about what Python wants anymore. It’s about what Forsyth can find the will to do, if he can even get out of bed, if he can carry a conversation, if he can simply exist without wondering why he bothers at all.

“I shall pray for your comfort, Forsyth.”

“Thank you, Sir Clive,” Forsyth says, but he knows there are no gods left to hear their prayers.

 

-

 

**II.**

Python is uncharacteristically gracious at the coronation. When Alm grants him his knighthood, Python bows and calls Alm _your majesty_ , which catches the young king off guard. Everyone’s wondering who killed Python and replaced him until he asks Celica how her new husband fares in bed, and thus order is restored.

They’re back to wondering when there’s wine and dancing, and Python is apparently a master of the Zofian waltz.

Between dances, Clair comes by with a hug and two glasses of wine, one of which would’ve spilled all onto her if Python hadn’t caught it by the stem. He steadies the glass and offers it back to her.

“That one’s for you anyway, _Sir_ Python,” Clair says with a bright smile. “You’re blending in just _perfectly_ , I’ll have you know—but remember what I said about the Archanean pavane. Mind your left foot, and if you’re not going to mind it, allow your partner lead. Still, I’m so proud of you! All those lessons are paying such amazing dividends! Forsyth’s right, you’re capable of brilliant things if you put your mind too it--”

Her mouth snaps shut when she sees Python flinch at Forsyth’s name. She purses her lips and says, “My sincerest apologies. I’ve no right to accuse you of minute missteps in a dance when I can hardly control my own tongue.”

Python manages a dry smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll get used to it.”

Clair notes the full glass of wine that Python’s still holding, and she swiftly changes the subject. “Pray tell, do you not drink anymore?”

“Can’t say I’ve been in the mood lately.”

She attempts to tell him the wonders of ram wine, and then she offers to ask the servants to fetch him country ale if he prefers that. Python's uninterested in both, so Clair leaves and returns to him with a glass of fizzy apple juice.

“So you can look the part, my lord,” she says, because she knows that Python, the man who spent hours each day of the last week learning to dance like a noble, cares what people think of him.

 

**II.**

Forsyth attends the coronation, and he bows low when Queen Celica knights him. No one’s quite sure why he asked for Celica to give him his honors over King Alm or even Lord Clive, but neither Alm or Clive are offended.

The festivities follow, but Forsyth leaves early. He makes a token effort to speak to the newly crowned king and queen, and then he’s gone.

Mycen finds him in the war room, examining the map of Valentia on the table. Forsyth hasn’t the slightest idea why Mycen joins him because certainly he has better matters to attend to. Maybe Clive asked him to go find out where Forsyth had disappeared to, or maybe he’s just getting too old to celebrate with people half his age.

“Sir,” Forsyth says as hello as soon as Mycen enters.

“And to you, _sir_. I believe congratulations are in order. It’s a rare knight that comes from common stock. Trust me, I would know.”

“It’s an incredible honor, sir,” Forsyth agrees but without the ringing conviction of the past. It’s simply the truth. It _is_  a great honor, but if it’s supposed to feel like a dream come true, it doesn’t. It feels like poison in his veins. It’s come at too high a cost.

“What next for you then, Sir Forsyth?”

“I don’t know. Away from here, I know that much, but I’m not sure where.” He looks down at the map again and surveys all his options. “There’s plenty of terrors to stamp out in Novis, plenty of scoundrels in Grieth, plenty of bandits in the border towns. Wherever I'm needed most would suit me best.”

Mycen doesn’t frown, but Forsyth can feel the weight of his disapproval. “That’s not where the glory is, my boy. You’ll fade away from public eye like that. Think about this: you could be a hero to the people, a hero to village boys and girls. It’s worth something for children to see someone like them, a commoner just as good, just as great a knight as any noble. You could inspire them.”

He doesn't want to inspire anyone to walk his path. He regrets his every decision, but he's not ready to explain that to anyone, let alone Sir Mycen. Instead, Forsyth says, “You left for Ram Village yourself.”

“I had a reason.”

“You did,” Forsyth agrees, again because it’s simply true. “I do too.”

 

-

 

**III.**

Python hasn’t slept well in a fortnight, and he looks dead. This is slightly better than Mathilda, who also hasn’t slept in a fortnight, but she’s been stabbed a few times, so she looks worse—magnificent as ever, but worse.

“That was reckless back there,” she chides as soon as she sees Python at the door. She’s bedridden, though the doctors say she’ll make a swift and clean recovery. “You are an _archer_. You really must stop charging in like a paladin.”

Python shrugs. “What, would you rather their mages swarm us over? I cut their spellcasters off. It was needed.”

“ _You’re_ needed. Alive.” She leaves it at that. They’ve had this argument before, and having it again won’t accomplish anything. “Nevertheless, I’m glad you found time to visit me—honored even, Sir Python! I thought you’d be too busy to ever leave the war room.”

Python laughs. It sounds awful, as if the only thing he’s eaten all day was sawdust, but it’s genuine at least. “Don’t worry, there won’t be any emergencies for at least a week or two.”

Mathilda grimaces. “You battled the pirates again then, while I was with the doctors.”

“Put to rout entirely last night, seized a couple of their ships too.”

She sighs; she straightens up as much as her bandages will allow her to, which isn’t very much. “Good work,” she admits, but she dislikes every word. She doesn’t want to encourage him. “Such good work that I must insist you recuse yourself for the summer season. _Shush_ , you, it’s hardly a punishment! It’s a well-deserved rest. Don’t make me order you to take a break.”

In the end, she orders him to take a break, and even then, he remains until Clive rides into Port Zofia himself to drag Python back to the castle. Python nevertheless manages to find a way to stay busy there too, greasing the wheels between the commoners and the nobles. He is universally respected, and the young king and queen are thankful for his presence.

The next time Mathilda sees Python, he is silver-tongued and handsomely dressed. He is something out of a children’s fairytale, a lowborn soldier turned knight of the realm adorned in glory and honor. He stops to say hello to her, armed with a dashing grin as well as his bow, and then he’s off to handle yet another mountain of important tasks.

She doesn’t recognize him anymore.

 

**III.**

Forsyth invites very few people to his wedding. Everyone in the castle only find out about it after the fact. Alm immediately saddles up his horse and starts riding until he reaches the little village that Forsyth chose for a second home.

“Forsyth!” Alm calls out as soon as he sees a familiar head of green hair. “My favorite deserter!”

“I’m not a deserter, your maj—“ Forsyth interrupts himself, because the young man before him is _definitely not_ the king of the One Kingdom pretending to be an ordinary traveler. “Al—“ he stops again, because calling him Alm wasn’t any more discreet than calling him your majesty.

“Al,” Alm agrees. He dismounts, and he doesn’t give Forsyth a choice for whether they’re to hug or not. They hug, it’s not manly, but Forsyth doesn’t mind. “I’m your old friend Al, from the capital. I heard you got married! And you’re not coming back! Since when? To who? Congratulations!”

Forsyth spends the rest of the day introducing Alm to everyone in the village. He is as bright-eyed and charismatic as ever. He learns everyone’s names, rains compliments upon Forsyth’s wife, and becomes best friends with his wife’s fearsome guard dog.

In the evening, they are alone but for the stars and a bottle of ram wine.

Alm pours a glass for each of them. He’s quiet as he does so. He wants to talk, but he hesitates, he considers holding his tongue, and Forsyth can see that he’s nervous. Then Alm speaks anyway. He asks, “Are you happy?”

“What? Of course I am.” It’s an unexpected question considering Forsyth’s freshly married and not showing any signs of the emptiness that plagued him back at the castle. “She’s a lovely woman. I’m a lucky man.”

“Yes, no, definitely, I absolutely agree with that. I meant—do you love her?” _Like you loved him_ , he doesn’t ask, but the question hangs heavy in the air between them.

“I love her,” Forsyth says aloud, just to clear up any doubt, “but we’re not all like you and Celica. It’s not fate, it’s not a fairytale, but I’m comfortable here and comfortable with her. That’s more than I ever expected to feel again.”

It's more than Alm ever expected too, which is why it's so strange to him. “It’s just that I always thought this—this quiet life, the villager life—I thought this wasn’t what you wanted, wasn’t your dream. You’re a knight, you could go do knight things if you wanted.”

“Dreams aren’t going to fill bellies,” Forsyth says. He tastes the wine again, downs the entire glass, and he thinks that’s the last he’ll ever drink of ram wine. “Dreams won’t keep anyone safe.”

 

-

 

**IV.**

Python tells his men to retreat. For the first day, they refuse to leave his side in the towers. On the second day, they gather what supplies they can carry, and then it’s only Python that remains.

He’s one archer upon a tower up against a few dozen rebel soldiers, but he can hold this chokepoint all day long—what happens after the day ends, when it becomes too dark to aim, well, Python knows what happens. He also knows his men are safe.

He doesn’t make it all day. He takes an arrow into his shoulder, careless on his part, overexposed himself and Python can’t even call it a fluke. It’s not the first time he’s gambled on his luck and lost.

He’s bleeding out. After a while, the pain fades. He doesn’t really feel anything anymore.

He expects the rebels to walk past the tower. There’s no reason to stop to check on a dead or dying man, but he hears solitary footsteps. Python looks up, and he realizes his vision’s long since faded. He sees nothing.

“The lowborn knight,” a lord says, surprised. Python recognizes the voice. It’s that stuffy lord that deserted the Deliverance after Lukas tore him a new one. Still causing them trouble, go figure. “But why would a commoner give up their life for their country?”

“Beats me,” Python responds, sounding the same as he did a few years ago, without a care in the world. He’s not long for it anyway.

The lord is baffled. Of course he is. He’s a stubborn fool that refused to break bread with even lesser nobles; Python doesn’t expect much from him. The lord asks, “Then what are you dying for?”

It’s a good question. Python doesn’t really know, not truly. He never understood _why_ Forsyth wanted to be a knight. He never needed to understand, he just went and followed him anyway.

“A dream,” he answers. Not his own dream, not one he ever understood, but he understood that it mattered to Forsyth, and so it was worth fighting for.

Python hears a knife unsheathe. His death is quick and painless. It is a mercy.

 

**IV.**

Forsyth lives a quiet life. He and his wife have three children and two dogs. Their life is as tranquil as it’s likely to be. Forsyth leads and trains a border patrol for most of his life, and brigands learn to give their village a wide berth.

His firstborn son enters the tutelage of his grandfather, and he becomes a fine scholar. For years, they rarely speak. His son has convinced himself that Forsyth is disappointed in him, that he wanted a warrior son to follow in his footsteps. All Forsyth can do is keep telling him that he is so very proud, but it falls upon deaf ears every time. Forsyth’s not sure how they ended up like this.

His daughter takes up a lance, and as soon she’s come of age, she leaves to seek out the knights of the One Kingdom. She demands of them her birthright: a knighthood befitting her lineage and her skill. Clive sends him a letter promising that he’ll take care of her. Forsyth writes back only to warn Clive that his daughter does not need anyone to take care of her.

The third son dies to a plague, and his wife with him. Forsyth mourns, but not as he did for Python. He did the best he could by them, and he has no regrets—their deaths shatter what remains of his heart, but their deaths were not his _fault_. This time, his hands are clean.

Forsyth retires after that. Lukas asks him to come help teach combat to young soldiers and would-be knights, and his daughter is eager to have him join her at the castle. It almost works out. Forsyth makes it as far as the road to Zofia Castle, but with every step he takes, the memories flood back, crystal clear, as if it they were only yesterday.

His daughter finds him off the side of the road two days later, not far into the woods. He’s a shaking wreck of a man, lost in his own mind.

His daughter stays at his side until he can walk again. She's never seen him like this, but she leads him back to the village. By the time he’s there, he’s calmer, almost back to who she expects him to be: a practical man, down-to-earth, not prone to flights of fancy.

“Who was he? Python?” she asks over a makeshift dinner of vegetable stew. It’s a daring question, but she’s a daring person. Her mother had always wondered where she got it from, but Forsyth knew she inherited it from him.

A shadow crosses her father’s face, but she expects an answer nonetheless. “The man I wanted to live out my life with,” he says, so softly that she strains to hear. “He died when we fought Duma, before I met your mother.”

She nods. A thousand different things all make sense now. She knows now why her father rarely spoke of the Deliverance and never spoke of the war. She helps him to bed, even though he doesn’t need help (he has coddled her all his life, now it’s her turn to do the same), and that’s the last they ever talk about it.

When Forsyth dies, he’s buried next to Python. She makes sure of it.

 

-

 

**V.**

Forsyth’s grave is marked with a simple stone slab, engraved with a lovely poem written by his father long ago. Python’s grave is unmarked but for a seedling planted over it. The result decades later is a healthy sycamore tree, and at its feet an understated memorial in honor of an unnamed knight.

Few people ever visit, but Lukas and Celica are among them. Lukas visits every year, not quite like clockwork but close to it. Celica is only here because Alm isn’t. He passed away last year, peacefully and of old age. She goes through his motions because—well, not for any reason in particular, besides that it feels like the right thing to do.

Lukas tells his students that he’s not getting old, but his bones creak and his hair’s long since turned silvery gray. When Celica realizes that he can’t keep up with her pace, she slows down and offers him a hand.

When she arrives, she comments that it’s a beautiful spot, and Lukas nods. After that, she falls silent, awkward in a way that she hasn’t been since she was young. Lukas considers telling her that she needn’t feel like an intruder here, but saying so aloud won’t change how she feels.

Lukas sits down in the shade of the tree. He doesn’t notice the passage of time until Celica taps him on the shoulder, and he sees that it’s starting to grow dark.

“Are you alright, Lukas?” she asks.

“Quite alright,” he answers. He stands back up with her help, though he’d like to believe he doesn’t need her help. “As alright as I can be, when I remember that I lost too many friends in that war.”

“I thought only one of them died during the war, when we fought against Duma?”

He agrees, because that’s not what he said. “Yes, one of them died, but we lost both of them that day.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, as if it were her fault. It isn’t. It’s no one’s fault, not even Duma’s.

They head back to town, but in the morning, Celica goes back to the graves and spends the entire day planting flower bulbs at the base of the tree. She’s a queen, and by the end of the day, her knees are raw and her hands covered dirt. She is pleased with her work.

When they return the next year, the flowers are in full bloom.


End file.
